Part 19

First, there is the memorable fact that, after reaching across the immeasurable distances, we find that the stars are like us,--like in their ultimate elements to those found in our own sun, our own earth, our own bodies. Any fuller view of the subject than that which we here only indicate, would begin with the evidence of this truth, which is perhaps on the whole the most momentous our science has brought us, and with which no familiarity should lessen our wonder, or our sense of its deep and permanent significance.

Next, perhaps, we should understand that, invading the province of the Old Astronomy, the spectroscope now tells us of the motions of these stars, which we cannot see move,--motions in what we have always called the “fixed” stars, to signify a state of fixity to the human eye, which is such, that to it at the close of the nineteenth century they remain in the same relative positions that they occupied when that eye first looked on them, in some period long before the count of centuries began.

In perhaps the earliest and most enduring work of man’s hands, the great pyramid of Egypt, is a long straight shaft, cut slopingly through the solid stone, and pointing, like a telescope, to the heavens near the pole. If we look through it now we see--nothing; but when it was set up it pointed to a particular star which is no longer there. That pyramid was built when the savages of Britain saw the Southern Cross at night; and the same slow change in the direction of the earth’s axis, that in thousands of years has borne that constellation to southern skies, has carried the stone tube away from the star that it once pointed at. The actual motion of the star itself, relatively to our system, is slower yet,--so inconceivably slow that we can hardly realize it by comparison with the duration of the longest periods of human history. The stone tube was pointed at the star by the old Egyptians, but “Egypt itself is now become the land of obliviousness, and doteth. Her ancient civility is gone, and her glory hath vanished as a phantasma. She poreth not upon the heavens, astronomy is dead unto her, and knowledge maketh other cycles. Canopus is afar off, Memnon resoundeth not to the Sun, and Nilus heareth strange voices.” In all this lapse of ages, the star’s own motion could not have so much as carried it across the mouth of the narrow tube. Yet a motion to or from us of this degree, so slow that the unaided eve could not see it in thousands of years of watching, the spectroscope, first efficiently in the hands of the English astronomer, Dr. Huggins, and later in those of Professor Young of Princeton, not only reveals at a look, but tells us the amount and direction of it, in a way that is as strange and unexpected, in the view of our knowledge a generation ago, as its revelation of the essential composition of the bodies themselves.

Again, in showing us this composition, it has also shown us more, for it has enabled us to form a conjecture as to the relative ages of the stars and suns; and this work of classifying them, not only according to their brightness, but each after his kind, we may observe was begun by a countryman of our own, Mr. Rutherfurd, who seems to have been among the first after Fraunhofer to apply the newly-invented instrument to the stars, and quite the first to recognize that these were, broadly speaking, divisible into a few leading types, depending not on their size but on their essential nature. After him Secchi (to whom the first conception is often wrongly attributed) developed it, and gave four main classes into which the stars are in this way divisible, a classification which has been much extended by others; while the first carefully delineated spectra were those of Dr. Huggins, who has done so much for all departments of our science that in a fuller account his name would reappear in every chapter of this New Astronomy, and than whom there is no more eminent living example of its study. Owing to their feeble light, years were needed when he began his work to depict completely so full a single spectrum as that he gives of Aldebaran, though he has lived to see stellar spectrum photography, whose use he first made familiar, producing in its newest development, which we give here, the same result in almost as many minutes. Before we present this latest achievement of celestial photography, let us employ the old method of an engraving made from eye-drawings, once more, to illustrate on page 222 the distinct character of these spectra, and their meaning. In the telespectroscope, the star is drawn out into a band of colored light, but here we note only in black and white the lines which are seen crossing it, the red end in these drawings being at the left, and the violet at the right; and we may observe of this illustration, that though it may be criticised by the professional student, and though it lack to the general reader the attraction of color, or of beautiful form, it is yet full of interest to any one who wishes to learn the meaning of the message the star’s light can be made to yield through the spectroscope, and to know how significant the differences are it indicates between one star and another, where all look so alike to the eye. First is the spectrum of a typical white or blue-white star, Sirius,--the very brightest star in the sky, and which we all know. The brighter part of the spectrum is a nearly continuous ribbon of color, crossed by conspicuous, broad, dark lines, exactly corresponding in place to narrower ones in our sun, and due principally to hydrogen. Iron and magnesium are also indicated in this class, but by too fine lines to be here shown.

Sirius, as will be presently seen, belongs to the division of stars whose spectrum indicates a very high temperature, and in this case, as in what follows, we may remark (to use in part Mr. Lockyer’s words) that one of the most important distinctions between the stars in the heavens is one not depending upon their mass or upon anything of that kind, but upon conditions which make their spectra differ, just in the way that in our laboratories the spectrum of one and the same body will differ at different temperatures.

What these absolutely are in the case of the stars, we may not know; but placing them in their most probable relative order, we have taken as an instance of the second class, or lower-temperature stage, our own sun. The impossibility of giving a just notion of its real complexity may be understood, when we state that in the recent magnificent photographs by Professor Rowland, a part alone of this spectrum occupies something like fifty times the space here given to the whole, so that, crowded with lines as this appears, scarcely one in fifty of those actually visible can be given in it. Without trying to understand all these now, let us notice only the identity of two or three of its principal elements with those found in other stars, as shown by the corresponding identity of some leading lines. Thus, C and F (with others) are known to be caused by hydrogen; D, by sodium; b, by magnesium; while fainter lines are given by iron and by other substances. These elements can be traced by their lines in most of the different star-spectra on this plate, and all those named are constituents of our own frames.

The hydrogen lines are not quite accurately shown in the plate from which our engraving is made, those in Sirius, for instance, being really wider by comparison than they are here given; and we may observe in this connection, that by the particular appearance such lines wear in the spectrum itself we can obtain some notion of the mass of a star, as well as of its chemical constitution. We can compare the essential characteristics of such bodies, then, without reference to their apparent size, or as though they were all equally remote; and it is a striking thought, that when we thus rise to an impartial contemplation of the whole stellar universe, our sun, whose least ray makes the whole host of stars disappear, is found to be not only itself a star, but by comparison a small one,--one at least which is more probably below than above the average individual of its class, while some, such as Sirius, are not impossibly hundreds of times its size.

Then comes a third class, such as is shown in the spectrum of the brightest star in Orion, looking still a little like that of our sun; but yet more distinctively in that of the brightest star in Hercules, looking like a columnar or fluted structure, and concerning which the observations of Lockyer and others create the strong presumption, not to say certainty, that we have here a lower temperature still. Antares and other reddish stars belong to this division, which in the very red stars passes into the fourth type, and there are more classes and subclasses without end; but we invite here attention particularly to the first three, much as we might present a child, an adult, and an old man, as types of the stages of human existence, without meaning to deny that there are any number of ages between. We can even say that this may be something more than a mere figure of speech, and that a succession in age is not improbably pointed at in these types.

We may have considered--perhaps not without a sort of awe at the vastness of the retrospect--the past life of the worlds of our own system, from our own globe of fluid fire as we see it by analogy in the past, through the stages of planetary life to the actual condition of our present green earth, and on to the stillness of the moon. Yet the life history of our sun, we can hardly but admit, is indefinitely longer than this. We feel, rather than comprehend, the vastness of the period that separates our civilization from the early life of the world; but what is this to the age of the sun, which has looked on and seen its planetary children grow? Yet if we admit this temperature classification of the stars, we are not far from admitting that the spectroscope is now pointing out the stages in the life of suns themselves; suns just beginning their life of almost infinite years; suns in the middle of their course; suns which are growing old and casting feebler beams,--all these and many more it brings before us.

Another division of our subject would, with more space, include a fuller account of that strange and most interesting development of photography which is going on even while we write; and this is so new and so important, that we must try to give some hint of it even in this brief summary, for even since the first numbers of this series were written, great advances have taken place in its application to celestial objects.

Most of us have vague ideas about small portions of time; so much so, that it is rather surprising to find to how many intelligent people, a second, as seen on the clock face, is its least conceivable interval. Yet a second has not only a beginning, middle, and end, as much as a year has, but can, in thought at least, be divided into just as many numbered parts as a year can. Without entering on a disquisition about this, let us try to show by some familiar thing that we can at any rate not only divide a second in imagination into, let us say, a hundred parts, but that we can observe distinctly what is happening in such a short time, and make a picture of it,--a picture which shall be begun and completed while this hundredth of a second lasts.

Every one has fallen through at least some such a little distance as comes in jumping from a chair to the floor, and most of us, it is safe to say, have a familiar impression of the fact that it takes, at any rate, less than a second in such a case from the time the foot leaves its first support till it touches the ground. Plainly, however large or small the fall may be, each fraction of an inch of it must be passed through in succession, and if we suppose the space to be divided, for instance, into a hundred parts, we must divide in thought the second into at least as many, since each little successive space was traversed in its own little interval of time, and the whole together did not make a second. We can even, as a matter of fact, very easily calculate the time that it will take anything which has already fallen, let us say one foot, to fall an inch more; and we find this, in the supposed instance, to be almost exactly one one-hundredth of a second. On page 243 is a reproduction of a photograph from Nature, of a man falling freely through the air. He has dropped from the grasp of the man above him, and has already fallen through some small distance,--a foot or so. If we suppose it to be a foot, since we can see that the man’s features are not blurred, as they would undoubtedly have been had he moved even much less than an inch while this picture was being taken, it follows, from what has been said, that the making of the whole picture--landscape, spectators, and all--occupied not over one one-hundredth of a second.

We have given this view of “the falling man” because, rightly understood, it thus carries internal evidence of the limit of time in which it could have been made; and this will serve as an introduction to another picture, where probably no one will dispute that the time was still shorter, but where we cannot give the same kind of evidence of the fact.

“Quick as lightning” is our common simile for anything occupying, to ordinary sense, no time at all. Exact measurements show that the electric spark does occupy a time, which is almost inconceivably small, and of which we can only say here that the one one-hundredth of a second we have just been considering is a long period by comparison with the duration of the brightest portion of the light.

On page 245 we have the photograph of a flash of lightning (which proves to be several simultaneous flashes), taken last July from a point on the Connecticut coast, and showing not only the vivid zigzag streaks of the lightning itself, but something of the distant sea view, and the masts of the coast survey schooner “Palinurus” in the foreground, relieved against the sky. We are here concerned with this interesting autograph of the lightning, only as an illustration of our subject, and as proving the almost infinite sensitiveness of the recent photographic processes; for there seems to be no limit to the briefness of time in which, these can so act in some degree, whether the light be bright or faint, and no known limit to the briefness of time required for them to act effectively if the light be bright enough.

What has just preceded will now help us to understand how it is that photography also succeeds so well in the incomparably fainter objects we are about to consider, and which have been produced not by short but by long exposures. We have just seen how sensitive the modern plate is, and we are next to notice a new and very important point in which photographic action in general differs remarkably from that of the eye. Seeing may be described, not wholly inaptly, as the recognition of a series of brief successive photographs, taken by the optic lens on the retina; but the important difference between seeing and photographing, which we now ask attention to, is this: When the eye looks at a faint object, such as the spectrum of a star, or at the still fainter nebula, this, as we know, appears no brighter at the end of half an hour than at the end of the first half-second. In other words, after a brief fraction of a second, the visual effect does not sensibly accumulate. But in the action of the photograph, on the contrary, the effect does accumulate, and in the case of a weak light accumulates indefinitely. It is owing to this precious property, that supposing (for illustration merely) the lightning flash to have occupied the one-thousandth part of a second in impressing itself on the plate, to get a nearly similar effect from a continuous light one thousand times weaker, we have only to expose the ¡date a thousand times as long, that is, for one second; while from a light a million times weaker we should get the same result by exposing it a million times as long, that is, for a thousand seconds.

And now that we come to the stars, whose spectra occupy minutes in taking, what we just considered will help us to understand how we can advantageously thus pass from a thousandth of a second or less, to one thousand seconds or even more, and how we can even,--given time enough,--conceivably, be able to photograph what the eye cannot see at all.

We have on page 231 a photograph quite recently taken at Cambridge from a group of stars (the Pleiades) passing by the telescope. Every star is caught as it goes, and presented, not in its ordinary appearance to the eye, but by its spectrum. There is a general resemblance in these spectra from the same cluster; while in other cases the spectra are of all types and kinds, the essential distinction between individuals alike to the eve, being more strikingly shown, as stars apparently far away from one another are seen to have a common nature, and stars looking close together (but which may be merely in line, and really far apart) have often no resemblance; and so the whole procession passes through the field of view, each individual leaving its own description. This self-description will be better seen in the remarkable photographs of the spectra of Vega and Aldebaran, which are reproduced on page 235 from the originals by a process independent of the graver. They were obtained on the night of November 9, 1886, at Cambridge, as a part of the work pursued by Professor Pickering, with means which have been given from fitting hands, thus to form a memorial of the late Dr. Henry Draper. We are obliged to the source indicated, then, for the ability to show the reader here the latest, and as yet inedited, results in this direction; and they are such as fully to justify the remark made above, that minutes, by this new process, take the place of years of work by the most skilful astronomer’s eye and hand.

The spectrum of Vega (Alpha Lyræ) is marked only by a few strong lines, due chiefly to hydrogen, because these are all there are to be seen in a star of its class. Aldebaran (the bright star in Taurus), on the contrary, here announces itself as belonging to the family of our own sun, a probably later type, and distinguished by solar-like lines in its spectrum, which may be counted in the original photograph to the number of over two hundred. There is necessarily some loss in the printed reproduction; but is it not a wonderful thing, to be able to look up, as the reader may do, to Aldebaran in the sky, and then down upon the page before us, knowing that that remote, trembling speck of light has by one of the latest developments of the New Astronomy been made, without the intervention of the graver’s hand, to write its own autograph record on the page before him?

In the department of nebular astronomy, photography has worked an equal change. The writer well remembers the weeks he has himself spent in drawing or attempting to draw nebulæ,--things often so ghost-like as to disappear from view every time the eye turned from the white paper, and only to be seen again when it had recovered its sensitiveness by gazing into the darkness. The labors of weeks were, literally, only represented by what looked like a stain on the paper; and no two observers, however careful, could be sure that the change between two drawings of a nebula at different dates was due to an alteration in the thing itself, or in the eye or hand of the observer, though unfortunately for the same reason it is impossible fully to render the nebulous effect of the photograph in engraving. We cannot with our best efforts, then, do full justice to the admirable one of Orion, on page 239, which we owe to the particular kindness of Mr. Common, of Ealing, England, whose work in this field is as yet unequalled. The original enlargement measures nearly two square feet in area, with fine definition. It is taken by thirty-nine minutes’ exposure, and its character can only be indicated here; for it is not too much to say here of this original also, that as many years of the life of the most skilled artist could not produce so trustworthy a record of this wonder.

The writer remembers the interest with which he heard Dr. Draper, not long before his lamented death, speak of the almost incredible sensitiveness of these most recent photographic processes, and his belief that we were fast approaching the time when we should photograph what we could not even see. That time has now arrived. At Cambridge, in Massachusetts, and at the Paris Observatory, by taking advantage of the cumulative action we have referred to, and by long exposures, photographs have recently been taken showing stars absolutely invisible to the telescope, and enabling us to discover faint nebulæ whose previous existence had not been suspected; and when we consider that an hour’s exposure of a plate, now not only secures a fuller star-chart than years of an astronomer’s labor, but a more exact one, that the art is every month advancing perceptibly over the last, and that it is already, as we may say, not only making pictures of what we see, but of what we cannot see even with the telescope,--we have before us a prospect whose possibilities no further words are needed to suggest.

We have now, not described, but only mentioned, some division of the labors of the New Astronomy in its photometric, spectroscopic, and photographic stellar researches, on each of which as many books, rather than chapters, might be written, to give only what is novel and of current interest. But these are themselves but a part of the modern work that has overturned or modified almost every conception about the stellar universe which was familiar to the last generation, or which perhaps we were taught in our own youth.

* * * * *

In considering the results to be drawn from this glance we have taken at some facts of modern observation, if it be asked, not only what the facts are, but what lessons the facts themselves have to teach, there is more than one answer, for the moral of a story depends on the one who draws it, and we may look on our story of the heavens from the point of view either of our own importance or of our own insignificance. In the one case we behold the universe as a sort of reflex of our own selves, mirroring in vast proportions of time and space our own destiny; and even from this standpoint, one of the lessons of our subject is surely that there is no permanence in any created thing. When primitive man learned that with lapsing years the oak withered and the very rock decayed, more slowly but as surely as himself, he looked up to the stars as the types of contrast to the change he shared, and fondly deemed them eternal; but now we have found change there, and that probably the star clusters and the nebulæ, even if clouds of suns and worlds, are fixed only by comparison with our own brief years, and, tried by the terms of their own long existence, are fleeting like ourselves.

“We have often witnessed the formation of a cloud in a serene sky. A hazy point barely perceptible--a little wreath of mist increases in volume and becomes darker and denser, until it obscures a large portion of the heavens. It throws itself into fantastic shapes, it gathers a glory from the sun, is borne onward by the wind, and as it gradually came, so, perhaps, it gradually disappears, melting away in the untroubled air. But the universe is nothing more than such a cloud,--a cloud of suns and worlds. Supremely grand though it may seem to us, to the infinite and eternal intellect it is no more than a fleeting mist. If there be a succession of worlds in infinite space, there is also a succession of worlds in infinite time. As one after another cloud replaces clouds in the skies, so this starry system, the universe, is the successor of countless others that have preceded it,--the predecessor of countless others that will follow.”

These impressions are strengthened rather than weakened when we come back from the outer universe to our own little solar system; for every process which we know, tends to the dissipation, or rather the degradation, of heat, and seems to point, in our present knowledge, to the final decay and extinction of the light of the world. In the words of one of the most eminent living students of our subject, “The candle of the sun is burning down, and, as far as we can see, must at last reach the socket. Then will begin a total eclipse which will have no end.

‘Dies iræ, dies illa, Solvet sæclum in favilla.’”

Yet though it may well be that the fact itself here is true, it is possible that we draw the moral to it, unawares, from an unacknowledged satisfaction in the idea of the vastness of the funeral pyre provided for such beings as ourselves, and that it is pride, after all, which suggests the thought that when the sun of the human race sets, the universe will be left tenantless, as a body from which the soul has fled. Can we not bring ourselves to admit that there may be something higher than man and more enduring than frail humanity, in some sphere in which our universe, conditioned as it is in space and time, is itself embraced; and so distrust the conclusions of man’s reason where they seem to flatter his pride?